


The Hands of a Healer

by Laylah



Category: Infinite Undiscovery
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[set during first-disc story events in Fayel; probably a more interesting read with second-disc information to go on]</p><p>The knock at the door comes just before he loses patience entirely with the pain and with his own weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hands of a Healer

The air in Fayel has cooled sharply since the sun went down, but it brings Edward no relief. The lunaglyph he received this afternoon still burns, as if the desert sun is trapped inside his hand. He has stripped to his underclothes, kicked away the blankets, thrown open the windows of his room, but the fire still runs in his veins. The skin surrounding the glyph is swollen, an angry red. Perhaps he cannot master it; perhaps having two of them is more than his body can --

No. Lord Sigmund can bear it, so he must do likewise. He _will_ prove his worth. This fever will pass; it must.

Edward rolls over and tries to will himself to relax, tries to think more of the cool night breeze and less of the burning mark on his hand. He closes his eyes.

The knock at the door comes just before he loses patience entirely with the pain and with his own weakness. He rises, knowing he should dress before he answers the door, too distracted and too angry to care. If it's Capell come to bother him again --

But no. Edward can tell the difference between them in an instant. "My lord," he says.

Sigmund nods in greeting. He studies Edward's face, his eyes measuring and somber. "How are you feeling, Edward?"

The heat in Edward's arm floods his face as well. "F-fine," he says. "You need not worry about me. I will not disappoint you."

"It is no easy thing to bear Veros's blessing twice," Sigmund says. He seems to have suffered no ill effects from it -- if anything, he's healthier now, and his face has taken on the serenity and wisdom of a man much older. Edward aches with the need to live up to that standard. "May I come in?"

"Of course," Edward says, stepping back hastily to allow Sigmund to enter. "My apologies." He closes the door carefully, scarcely daring to think on the intimacy of this situation: he is almost entirely undressed, and Sigmund has traded his armor for the loose whispering robes of Fayel nobility. Edward wonders for a moment if Aya suggested the change, dressed him in her people's garb, and anger makes the pain in his hand flare hot.

Sigmund takes in the state of the room, the pile of Edward's clothes and mail at the foot of the bed, the discarded blankets, the open windows. "You are certain you're all right?" he says.

"Please don't worry about me," Edward says. "I won't slow you down."

Sigmund stops by the window, where Veros provides light. "Let me see," he says, holding out his hand.

Edward cannot refuse. He crosses the room, holds out his marked left hand. Pain pulses in it in time with his heartbeat, growing faster as Sigmund reaches for him.

"Perhaps I should not have agreed to this," Sigmund says quietly.

"My lord," Edward protests. "I _will_ master it. I --"

Sigmund's hand bears up beneath his, and at the touch Edward loses his voice. Sigmund's fingers are cool and careful; his thumb brushes the outside edge of the lunaglyph and brings relief with it. For a moment, the air smells like home, like fresh dew on the grass and the sweetness of apple blossoms. Edward laughs softly in disbelief. It's like the stories he remembers from reading the _Tales of Volsung_ when he was a boy: the soldiers realizing that the hero walked among them when he tended to the wounded, when his touch brought relief like no other remedy.

When he looks up, Sigmund is watching the effects of his work, more calm -- more _compassionate_ \-- than Edward can ever remember seeing him. His lips move as if he recites a spell, but he does so soundlessly. Where his fingertips trace the lines of the fresh glyph, the heat fades in their wake.

"I had not known you were a healer," Edward says. It shouldn't surprise him. No-one else is blessed in so many ways, but Lord Sigmund is an example to them all.

"I have no great talent for it," Sigmund demurs. When he looks up to meet Edward's eyes, he is nearly smiling. "I do only what I can, what I must. As do we all."

They are so close, the moment so quiet and intimate, and they are already touching; it would take only a moment's courage to lean down, to press their lips together --

Sigmund steps back, releasing his hand. "Sleep well, Edward," he says. He does smile in truth, for an instant. "When we return to Vesplume Tower, we will need all of your strength."

"Thank you, my lord," Edward says. He cannot bring himself to make such an advance. It is not his place. "I will not fail you."

There is no more pain to distract him when Sigmund leaves, but still he fears it will be a long time before he can sleep.


End file.
